In my prison I read of the seizure and was doubly alarmed; increasingly so when the newspapers began publishing reports that they implicated literally hundreds of Irish- and German-Americans whose services von Papen had used in his plots. Then as the days passed, and my name was not mentioned in the disclosures, I became relieved. “After all,” I thought, “he knows that I am here in prison and that I have kept silent. He will have been careful. These others—he has had some reason for his incautiousness with them. But, he will not betray me, just as he has betrayed none of his German associates.” Then, on the night of January 30th, 1916, the governor of Reading Prison informed me that I was to go to London the next day. “Where to?” I asked. “To Scotland Yard,” he said briefly. “What for?” “I do not know.” My heart sank, for I realized at once that something had occurred which was of vital import to me. I have faced firing squads in Mexico. I have stood against a wall, waiting for the signal that should bid the soldiers fire. And I have taken other dangerous chances, without, I believe, more fear than another man would have known. But never have I felt more reluctant than that night when I stood outside of Scotland Yard, waiting—for what? I was brought in to the office of the Assistant Commissioner and found myself in the presence of four men, who regarded me gravely and in silence. I had never seen them before, but later I learned their names: Capt. William Hall of the Admiralty Intelligence Department; Mr. Nathan, the Oriental expert of the Foreign Office; Captain Carter of the War Office, and Mr. Basil Thompson, Assistant Commissioner of the Police of London. There was something tomb-like about the atmosphere of the room, I thought, as I faced these men—and then I changed my opinion, for I saw lying open on the table around which they were seated—a box of cigarettes. I reached forward to take one, forgetting all politeness (for I had not smoked in six weeks) when my eye caught sight of a little pink slip of paper which one of them held in his hand—a slip which, I knew at once, was the cause of my presence there. It was Captain Hall who held the paper toward me. It read: WASHINGTON, D. C. September 1, 1914. The Riggs National Bank, Pay to the order of Mr. Bridgman Taylor two hundred dollars. F. VON PAPEN. When I had read it he turned over the check so that I could see the endorsement. They were all watching me. The room was very still. I could hear myself breathe. Mr. Nathan of the Foreign Office handed me a pen and paper. “Sign this name, please—Mr. Bridgman Taylor.” I knew it would be folly to attempt to disguise my handwriting. I wrote out my name. It corresponded exactly with the endorsement on the back of the check. “Do you know that check?” he asked.